


Five Red Hens

by susurrate



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M, green-witchery; Sympathetic magic; Janus Thickey Ward;
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-21
Updated: 2019-04-21
Packaged: 2020-01-23 01:50:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18539854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/susurrate/pseuds/susurrate
Summary: Written for Sing-Me-A-Rare Volume 3Song Prompt: Death With Dignity, by Sufjan StevensA disappointment to his Gran, unrecognized by his father, and only half-seen by his mother, Neville has lived with many barriers between him and love.  When his long-time crush returns his affection, Neville finally learns to believe he’s worthy and that love is there for him.  With this newfound strength, he tries to break through to his parents.





	Five Red Hens

The air ached around him, over-bright with spring sun and slicingly cold.  Justin felt the dew from the grass soaking through his trousers as he sat just downhill from the sleeping pumpkin patch.  With Hagrid doing rounds in the Forbidden Forest, it was a decent spot for privacy.  The potted plant in his lap quivered withered branches as the wind became more biting, and Justin cast a charm to protect it—from the wind, at least, if not the decay.  Tear tracks left salt for the wind to lick. 

Justin could faintly hear the sound of someone knocking at Hagrid’s door.  _He’s not home,_ Justin thought at the unknown intruder.  _Go away._

Neville placed the book he had borrowed about specialized plants from the giant colony carefully on Hagrid’s doorstep.  He turned to leave and saw a figure sitting alone down the hill.  He wondered if he should go say hullo or not, when the figure turned his face and looked up at him. 

Justin’s resolve for privacy suddenly wavered as he felt a warm satisfaction in the way Neville hurried to his side.  Justin quickly swiped the tears from his face.

“Hey,” the Gryffindor greeted in concern.

“Hey,” Justin echoed. 

Neville slowly crouched next to him.  In his nervousness he remained balanced on the toes of his feet, ready to get up and leave should Justin reject company.  With gentle sincerity he asked, “What’s wrong?”

Justin felt the tears rising and he dug his fingers harder against the clay pot, drawing Neville’s attention to the plant.  It was nearly dead except for one bright green leaf.  “Looks like you have a fighter on your hands,” Neville motioned to the incongruous leaf.  “Do you want help with it?”

“I don’t know what can be done, she’s nearly gone.”  Justin let out a gasping little laugh and added, “it’s so stupid, to be this upset over a plant.”

“I don’t think so,” Neville said.  “I carried around a Mimbulus Mimbletonia for a year.  Actually carried it around.  Imagine that.”

A wobbly smile trundled against Justin’s lips.  “I remember,” he said.  This surprised Neville; he hadn’t thought Justin ever noticed him. 

“How long have you had—her?” Neville caught himself on the pronoun, stumbling to match Justin’s usage.  Neville shifted to sit more comfortably beside him.

“Over half my life,” Justin said.  Urgency was leaning into his gut and he didn’t know what else to do with that feeling except, perhaps, talk.  “Gran Cecilia gave her to me when I was seven.  My parents wouldn’t let me have pets, and I didn’t have any friends.  None of the blokes at school wanted to be ‘too nice’ to the bent kid.” 

Neville felt brief elation that the rumours were true—his crush did play for the same team!—but right now, Justin needed a friend.  Neville listened to him.

“Gran Cecilia saw how lonely I was.  She figured my parents wouldn’t object to a house plant.  It gave me something to care for, a little life that needed me.”  Justin looked at Neville, who smiled with understanding.  “I named her Cece, after my Gran,” Justin admitted shyly.  After all, who names a plant? 

“That’s pretty,” Neville said.                       

Justin smiled.  “Yeah.  She was just a little bush of a thing.  But I took her to my room, and the next morning, boom!  She had all these flowers.  I’ve never heard of something growing that fast before.”  He felt a shuddering breath roll through him and he wished he could calm himself down—this was embarrassing.

“Was it your first stint of accidental magic?” Neville asked. 

Justin shook his head.  “No.  I’ve never actually done accidental magic.”

“What, never?” Neville challenged incredulously.

“Nothing, not even a spark,” Justin insisted.  The conversation was calming, but his body felt full of adrenaline itching him to figure out the danger.  He ignored it and continued: “I didn’t even know magic was real until Professor McGonagall came with my Hogwarts letter and talked to my parents.  I thought I was bound for Eton.”

Neville assumed by context that was some sort of muggle school, but he wasn’t really sure.  He studied the plant as closely as he dared without being obvious.  Perhaps Justin’s muggle grandmother somehow came across a magical plant?  Neville considered different plants that might behave that way…  Something that would tap enough magic from Justin that he wouldn’t experience any accidental magic…something that responds to being Named… “Can I ask you a weird question?”

“Sure,” Justin agreed, hoping for distraction from the sudden swell of despair flaring brightly.  Thorns of fear pricked deep under his fingernails to their root, but he didn’t know what he had to be afraid of.

“Have you ever noticed a pattern between Cece and your Gran?”

Justin had to focus on taking his next breath because the sudden pressure on his chest was so significant that he wasn’t sure his lungs could inflate again.  Just as suddenly, the feeling was gone.  He released the breath slowly.  “Actually, yeah.  I mean, it’s just a weird coincidence, but I think that’s what’s really getting to me,” he answered, and Neville’s breath stopped.  Justin continued, “Sometimes Cece’s flowers would wilt, and I always got this weird pit in my stomach…and every time it’s happened, I’ve checked on my Gran.  Don’t know why it started that way, it just felt like the right thing to do.  Anyway, every single time I’ve checked, there’s been something wrong.  Gran would be sick, or sad—one time, she sliced her thumb paring apples.”  Justin dully realized his hands and feet were ice cold.  He shook his head a little, and wondered why Neville looked so worried.  “It’s become a superstition for me: if Cece looks off, go check on Gran.  And I know,” he said sharply, “ _I know_ it’s just coincidence.”  He looked down at the plant’s shriveled leaves, its fallen petals.  “It’s irrational, but I look at Cece now, and I can’t help thinking Gran needs me.”

“It’s not irrational,” Neville said, trying to figure out a plan.  “You have Sympathetic magic.”

“No I don’t.  What’s that?”

The answer was so sweet that Neville wanted to stop and tease him for it.  “Explanations later,” Neville insisted instead.  “Right now we need to get to your Gran.”  Neville was quickly weighing the options of who to turn to: either of their Heads of House, Dumbledore, Madam Pomfrey…

“But she’s fine.  This isn’t _magic,_ ” Justin dismissed, trying to release the rapidly inflating fear that threatened to burst his lungs open like overfull balloons.  “I’m always aware when I cast something, and I didn’t do this.  I don’t even know what ‘this’ is.” 

Neville stretched out his right leg and untied his brogue. 

“What are you--?”

“I have a Portkey in my shoe, under the inlay.”  Neville took his shoe off and peeled up the insole.  “When Cedric was killed, my Gran insisted I have one on me at all times in case war returned to Hogwarts.”  He flipped the brogue upside down and shook it until a coin fell out.  “I told her if the castle was attacked, I’d stay to defend my friends.  She said, ‘then you’ll die with options’.”

Justin snorted in amusement.  Neville smiled, then pointed at the coin in the grass.  “This will take us to Longbottom Manor, and my Gran can Apparate us.  She knows a lot about healing, she should be able to help.”

Justin squirmed.  His rational mind insisted that he would _know_ if he had been continuously casting magic for the last eight years.  Logic said the weird pattern between Cece and his Gran was just a coincidence...

But his gut screamed _hurry._  

“How does it work?”

“Just take my hand.”

Oh, how Justin had wanted to hear that offer for a year now, but in his daydreams it had always been coyly offered after a DA session, or at a Hogsmeade visit.  Not while he was crying over a plant like an idiot. 

Neville silently lectured himself to treat this as if he were helping Harry or Ron, and coolly extended his hand.  Justin looked up at him, his gaze singularly focused.  He fit his palm into Neville’s grip with long fingers curling in refuge along the back of his hand.  Justin’s hold was a signal searchlight striking—Neville felt _found_. 

The Gryffindor’s non-dominant hand fumbled in the wet grass for the coin, and with a soft _pop!_ they were gone.

The boys landed in the piano room of Longbottom Manor.  Justin’s knees nearly buckled and he felt nauseated.  The manor wards immediately alerted Augusta to the authorized portkey delivering guests.  Justin barely had time to collect himself and stand up straight before a stern looking woman barreled into the room.

“Gran,” Neville greeted her, relieved she was home and not at one of her many society meetings.  A diagnostic spell hit both boys with such ferocity that Neville could taste something bitter in the back of his throat.  Satisfied the children were unharmed, Augusta greeted her grandson accordingly:

“Where is your shoe?” She demanded.

Neville looked at her blankly, momentarily confused, and then realized he had left his other shoe in the damn grass.  His face started to heat up.  He had never had a single friend visit the manor before, could she pause her reprimands and criticisms just this once?!  “Gran,” he grated, hoping to get her to prioritize, “You know I’d only use that portkey in _an emergency_ right?”

“Were you in immediate danger?”

Neville sighed in defeat.  “No,” he mumbled.  “But—”

“Then you should have had the common sense to retrieve your shoe.” With a flick of her wand, another set of shoes careened out of the hall and landed in front of him.  “Not enough Rememberalls in the world,” she muttered as her grandson toed-off his one remaining Brogue and hurriedly stuffed his feet into the new shoes.  “And you, young man.  Do you plan to introduce yourself?”

Justin held himself tall, _firm and fluid_ as his dad always taught him; but rote memory couldn’t kneed the tension from his voice.  “Justin Finch-Fletchley, son of Frederick and Helene.  It’s a pleasure to meet you, ma’am.”

“Ah.  You’re _new_ ,” she said.

Neville shot a look at his friend, wondering if he’d heard the euphemism for muggleborn before; it was one used by Purebloods who welcomed new magic but who also infantilized muggleborns for needing to be taught magical culture.  Justin gave her a patient smile, and Neville felt ashamed. 

“Gran, look at the plant,” Neville instructed.  “It—she’s connected to his grandmother.”

Augusta’s eyes narrowed and she stepped closer.  “Read it to me.”

“I don’t know how,” Justin said.  He hated feeding her preconceptions about ‘poor naive muggleborns’, but if there really was more to the situation than just the plant’s health then he needed to be direct.

Like a frog tongue snapping, her wrist flew out and she pinched Neville’s ear dragging him toward her. 

“Ow!”

“Boy, you got his hopes up when he can’t read it?!”  She twisted once for good measure and released him.  Neville absently rubbed the spot.  “A single leaf, a single leaf on a dead plant, and you think that’s something more than a soul not knowing how to let go of a body that’s released it?”

Justin lost all colour. 

“We don’t know that’s the case,” Neville tried convincing them both.

Augusta snorted.  “She’s a muggle.  Of course that’s the case.”

“With all due respect, ma’am,” Justin began, his voice quiet, “She’s the strongest person I’ve ever known.  If there’s even a one-leaf chance to help her…”  He swallowed.  “ _Please._ ”

Augusta’s lips pursed, and her eyes darted down critically at the plant.  With a sharp clap, she called, “Wibbs!”

A house-elf appeared, bowing so deeply that his ears brushed the floor. 

“Fetch my healing tonics.  Put them in the wicker travel basket and bring them to me.  Be quick about it.”  She turned to Justin as the elf disapparated.  She stared at the boy and said steadily, “You’re confused.  You’re afraid.  I require your concentration and obedience, can you comply?”

Justin jut his chin out to keep his mouth from trembling.  “Yes, ma’am.”

“Good,” she said.  _We’ll see_ , she thought.  “Do you have your Apparating license?”

“No ma’am.”

“Have you ever Apparated before?”

“No ma’am.”

She raised a bony yet elegant hand, speckled with age spots, to rub across her brows in efforts to ease her frustration.  Turning slightly towards Neville she muttered, “Exactly how did you think we would arrive at Madam Finch-Fletchley’s side if the boy can’t bring us to her?”

The only thing more terrifying than Snape was his grandmother’s disapproval.  Neville did his best to keep his voice level, rather than the subservient squeak it wanted to reach.  “You’re a pretty good legilimens…so I thought maybe if you look inside his head and see where the place is, that would be the same as if you’d been there yourself?”  He cursed himself for making it sound like a question.  He imagined Justin must think he was such a wimp.

“Do you have _any idea_ how dangerous that is?!” she hissed.

“Look!” Justin cried, the leaf’s colour bleeding from emerald to olive.

She griped Justin’s head, palms flat at either temple.  “Where would your grandmother be right now?”

“At home!”

“Listen to me,” she said, her voice low.  “Imagine her house.  Do not think of her, or anyone else.  Think only of the physical structure of her home.  Every entrance, every wall, every stick of furniture.  It’s imperative that you block anything else from your thoughts, and visualize her home with every possible detail.”  He stared back at her, wide-eyed with fear, and nodded quickly.  She slid into his thoughts…

…and saw with perfect clarity a muggle home.  She explored the suite, quickly making inventory of its physical attributes.  The vision was as solid as if she were physically there.  She hadn’t been this impressed with a child since Frank….This memory had the quality of concentration commonly associated with meditation and subsequent pensieve storage.  As she reached the front doorway there was a brief flicker of static—the image of a woman waving to someone leaving—and as quick as it came it was gone.  The boy’s self-control was truly admirable.

“You did well,” she said as she exited Justin’s mind.  If the muggle woman had his strength of focus to hold on, there might be a chance for her.  The wicker basket had been delivered, and Neville had the good sense to hold it while waiting.  She took a fistful of each boy’s sleeve and disapparated without warning.

They landed successfully in a small foyer.  Justin fell to his hands and knees and vomited.  Augusta cast a _find-me_ charm, discompassionately took the plant from his side, and hurried towards her patient’s bedroom.

Neville did a quick cleaning charm and knelt beside Justin, rubbing his back.  “It’s okay,” he reassured at the same time as Justin whispered, “You can’t do that, you’ll get in trouble!”

Neville’s hand jerked back to his side as if he’d been burned.

“No, not…that,” Justin said, a gentle yearning filling the words.  He cleared his throat.  “I meant magic.” 

Neville gave a small, confused laugh.  “Why on earth would I be in trouble for using magic?”

Now it was Justin’s turn to look confused.  “If we do magic outside of Hogwarts, we risk expulsion.”

Neville’s smile was gone.  He’d heard of this rule for muggleborns, but he’d always assumed it was for First Years…he had no idea it was for their entire tenure at Hogwarts.  “Um…I don’t know how to say this, but...I’m a Pureblood, they don’t track underage magic for us.”

Justin’s face fell into a perfect mask, one that any Slytherin would strive to match.  “Oh.”

“Yeah…” Neville felt uncomfortable with his privilege.  “I’m sorry.”

Justin tried to stand but the movement forced his stomach to turn inside out again.  He desperately tried to restrain it, but a smaller amount of regurgitation punched its way out.  Neville wondered if he should muggle-clean it in solidarity, but he had no idea where the kitchens or bathrooms would be, and didn’t want to leave his friend to go rummaging in a stranger’s home for supplies that he might not even recognize.  Guiltily, he cast the charm again.

Justin moaned and let his forehead touch the ground.

“This will pass in a few minutes, ten minutes tops,” Neville said.  “It’s normal if you’ve never Apparated before.”

“Why?” Justin mumbled from the floor.  “Why are muggleborns’ magic tracked, and not Purebloods?”

 _Oof, there’s a question,_ Neville thought.  He reached out and rubbed Justin’s back again, partly to soothe the nausea, partly wishing to bridge the gap between them.  “I think it’s because they’re worried,” Neville offered, wanting to believe the best in people.  “If a twelve year old tries to do a Year Six spell, and they lose control, a muggle household would have no way to help.  But if a Pureblood does it, there’s a whole family of magic-users who could fix things.”

“That’s not it,” Justin said darkly.  “If they traced our magic because they were concerned for our safety, then they would respond to accidental magic.  I’ve heard stories, nobody has come to help or even explain during accidental magic bursts.  The tracing is punitive: if we use intentional magic in arenas they can’t control, they won’t let us continue to learn magic.”  Justin slowly lifted his head from the floor and looked at Neville.  “We’re _new_ , and dangerous, and must be contained.”

Neville remembered stories Harry and Hermione had told about their own accidental magic.  It was true…nobody from the Ministry or Hogwarts had come to their aid.  “It’s not right,” Neville said softly.  He vowed to talk to Hermione later—he was certain she was unaware that underage Purebloods weren’t traced.  Activist-Hermione would know what to do.

 _"Boys!_ ” called Augusta from far off.  Justin’s heart leapt and he scrambled to his feet, only to have a wave of dizziness knock him hard enough that he fell against the wall.

“I got you,” Neville said, gripping his arm and hauling him upright.  They went as fast as Justin dared, Neville providing strength and stability and Justin leading the way.

Justin froze in the door-frame of his Gran’s bedroom, the typically clumsy Neville so closely attuned to his movements that he halted at the same time.  Justin looked with fear-soaked eyes towards the bed—

“Oh, my sweet boy,” Gran Cecilia greeted hoarsely.  She was propped up by pillows in her bed so she could sit.  “Don’t look so scared.  Come give us a squeeze.”

Justin nearly fell into her open arms and hugged her tightly.  She stroked his hair and murmured reassurances.

“As I’ve explained to Cecilia,” Augusta began primly, “I am not a Healer.  I was able to stabilize her, but she has a very serious heart condition and requires the attention of a professional to ensure her continued safety.”

Justin pulled back from his Gran and looked at Lady Longbottom.  “Thank you for everything you’ve done.”  He wished he knew how to express his respect and gratitude in a way that it would be accepted by this formidable woman.  Cecelia began fussily fixing his tie.  “ _Graaan!_ ” he objected.

“I died today, grant me some allowances,” she said cheerfully.

“ _Briefly!_ ” Augusta ruffled, taking the teasing as an affront to her efforts.  “I brought you right back!”

Cecelia smoothed her hands down her grandson’s shoulders and looked to Lady Longbottom.  “I don’t think a doctor could have done what you did for me.  I am in your debt.”

Augusta sighed and grumbled in dry humour, “A muggle life-debt, how valuable.”

Cecelia grinned.  “Your soul touched mine.  You can’t fool me with your brusqueness.  I believe we shall be fast friends.”

“Hmph,” Augusta snorted, but there was a smile hiding near her lips.  “Justin,” she said, turning to the boy, “Perhaps fetch a glass of water for your Gran?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Justin said.  He flashed a huge grin at Neville and hurried away, the after-effects from Apparating now dissolved.  Neville watched him go before turning his gaze towards the room, trying to be unobtrusive to the adults’ conversation.  His whole face lit up when he saw a picture of Justin as a child—he couldn’t have been older than ten—dressed like a chimney sweep.  There was a little girl beside him in a lacy white dress with red accents, but Neville barely even noticed her.  Unable to help himself, he picked up the frame to gaze adoringly at the cutest little boy he’d ever seen.

“Ohh, that’s Justin at his cousin Katie’s birthday,” Cecelia cooed.  “It was Mary Poppins themed.”

Neville smiled at the dimpled boy with a flue-brush swung jauntily over one shoulder.  “Little soot-n-sweep,” he murmured, horrified to realize he’d accidentally spoken aloud. 

“What’s that mean?” Justin asked, returning with the glass of water.

“Oh, uhhhh,” Neville tried desperately to come up with a lie, grateful his friend was muggleborn and didn’t know—

“It’s a pet name, dear,” Augusta replied coolly.

Justin raised his eyebrows at Neville, helping his gran hold the cup as she took a tiny sip and studied her grandson’s friend.

“No it’s not!” Neville denied fearfully.  He quickly set the frame back on the dresser.  Turning to Justin, he insisted quieter, “It’s not.”

Justin slowly smiled at him.  “Pity.”  He enjoyed the look of shock on Neville’s face, but more so the look of shared realization between the two.

“Speaking of chimney swifts,” Augusta began, turning to Cecelia, “I can’t help but notice that despite the obvious wealth of your home, you don’t have a single fireplace.”

“My son has one in the main sitting room upstairs…” Cecelia’s eyes twinkled in mischief as she coyly added, “It’s an electric fireplace.”

“Humph!” Augusta declared, “What good is that?!”

“Just imagine,” Cecelia teased, leaning hard into baiting her new friend.  “Mounted on the wall, as decorative and impractical as a piece of art.”  Augusta’s thin lips were pressed into colourless lines.  “It even has a remote control for oscillating flame-colour!”

Augusta sputtered.  “Well in _our world,_ a fireplace is the single most important aspect of a home!”  She gave a perfunctory nod to emphasize her point.  “We use it to cook, to communicate, to travel, to brew potions…”

“I think I understand now,” Cecelia said, looking softly to Neville.  “Chimney sweeps must be…integral.”

“I should think so!” Augusta billowed, purposely ignoring the pretty way her grandson blushed.  “The soot, ash, and fumes can be dangerous if left to accumulate or intermix!”

“You’re funny,” Cecelia said fondly. 

“And you’re clearly exhausted,” Augusta dismissed.  “I think I ought to bring the boys back to school.”

*

Augusta Apparated the boys just outside the Hogwarts gate and bid them adieu.  Justin held Cece in one arm: she was smaller and delicate-looking, but her leaves were full and her colour ripe. 

Justin and Neville crossed the threshold of the gate together and their steps immediately slowed, trying to attune where the other was going and if he wanted company.  They each felt the silence of what they wanted to say fizzing over their skin. 

“How far down from the pumpkins were we?”  Neville asked, his memory kaleidoscoping.  “I should go get my shoe.”

Justin smiled.  “It’s this way,” he said as he began walking towards the spot.  Happy to have an excuse to walk together a little longer, neither boy suggested they use a summoning charm.  Their fingers kept brushing against each other, first slightly then boldly, until Neville caught Justin’s hand and held it.

“So,” Justin began, “Sympathetic magic.”

“Yes,” Neville exclaimed, relieved for the conversation starter.  “Sympathetic magic is a Founder’s Gift.  Specifically, Helga’s.  Each Founder has a gift bestowed in cycles to future generations.  It’s rare, and there’s rules…”  His brain supplied too many things to say at once and he had to pause, trying to sort his facts.  Justin waited patiently.  “Helga’s gift is an advanced form of green witchery.  Sympathetic magic has the ability to bind a person to a plant, allowing for diagnostic abilities we can’t achieve otherwise.  It can be used to determine lifespan, identify trauma, even communicate with coma patients.  It’s also an alerting system when something changes.”

“How did my Gran become bound? Because I didn’t _do_ anything…”

“And Harry spoke Parseltongue without realizing it, too,” Neville smiled.  “Remember how confused he was that no one understood him?  He was convinced he’d been speaking English when he saw the snake.” Neville cast a mild warming charm around them to brace against the wind-chill.  “A Founder’s Gift doesn’t require intention, only need.”

“Whoa whoa, be kind rewind,” Justin said.  “Parseltongue is Slytherin’s gift?”

“Yep,” Neville said.  “It’s what made me research the Founders Gifts in the first place.  After Harry outed himself as a Parselmouth, everyone started saying how Parseltongue is inherently evil.  You might remember?” he teased.

Justin looked away guiltily.  “I got pretty riled up about it at first,” he acknowledged.  “But then my dumb-ass twelve-year-old brain realized that knowing a language doesn’t make you good or bad.  I was on my way to apologize to Harry when I was petrified.  It was the first thing I did when I was revived, but apologizing because you know it’s right is very different from apologizing because you were proven wrong.  I wish I’d done it when Harry could know it came from believing in him.  Not just because evidence was later found.”

“Harry’s a good bloke.  The fact you said ‘sorry’ at all would be enough for him.”

Justin squeezed his hand in thanks.  Neville squeezed back.

“Can I ask,” Justin began nervously, not wanting to offend but genuinely curious, “if Parseltongue is a Founder’s Gift, why does it have its reputation for evil?”

Neville tried hard to remember what he had learned years ago.  “First, you need to understand what snakes symbolize.  Since they shed their skin, they’ve become symbols of rebirth, transformation, immortality, and healing.  Yeah?  Then you need to think on what language actually is.  It’s all symbols.  It’s a system that governs symbols, to form strings-of-symbols, and that’s how you get sentences.”  Neville wished he knew the linguistic terms to convey himself more intelligently, and had it been Ginny asking him the question he might have just referred her to a book to spare himself from looking like a simpleton.  But for Justin, he could ignore his own discomfort and keep trying.  “Languages depend on symbols. So imagine a language made from the symbols of snakes.”  Justin drew his thumb with agonizing slowness across Neville’s knuckle, and Neville briefly forgot how to speak.  “Spellcasting requires language to cast, even if the spell is performed nonverbally.  You still need the name of the spell to focus your intent.  The power in language is the reason why some cultures excel at certain spells, and why most Purebloods are multilingual.”

“Are you?”  Justin asked, distracted.

Neville blushed.  “ _Most_ Purebloods…I don’t have the memory for taking on another language.  Wish I did.  Lord knows Gran tried to get me to learn.”  Unconsciously, his shoulders tightened and bunkered down, slouching him against the lashes of reprimand he could feel from his Gran and uncle, from never being Enough.

“Well, after seeing your Patronus in the D.A., it seems you’ve already got enough power from the one language.”

Neville’s blush turned from blasting heat to enticing warmth.  His shoulders relaxed and he walked a little taller.  “Thanks,” he whispered, then quickly moved on.  “So the real power in Parseltongue isn’t just talking to snakes; it’s the magic you can do with it.  Casting transfiguration or healing charms in Parseltongue produces absolutely incredible results.  I tried to tell Harry this back in Year Two, but he was adamant he didn’t want to use Parseltongue in class.  He said he just wants a normal life and to go unnoticed in the classroom.”  Neville grinned.  “Can you imagine the look on Salazaar’s face if he heard his gift went to someone who had zero ambition for it?”

“Pretty sure he’s rolling in his grave,” Justin agreed.  “So all this is still sounding pretty great.  I don’t get it – why does everyone think Parseltongue is evil?”

Neville’s face darkened.  “Snakes symbolize transformation and healing… but they also symbolize immortality and rebirth.”  He grimaced.  “Which means that typically, Parselmouths have been powerful necromancers.”  Neville shook his head slightly.  “No one wants their dead disturbed.”

They reached the bottom of the little hill where Justin had been and easily spotted the missing brogue.  Neville cast a charm to shrink his shoe to the size of a button.  With a little flick of his wand, the shoe jumped up into his palm and he pocketed it.  He smiled bashfully at Justin, wishing the walk had taken longer…

“Since you read up on all this before, would you take me to the library and show me where the good books are?”  Justin asked.

Neville felt as if he’d been dosed with a Cheering potion.  “Sure,” he said, and the two walked toward the castle.  Neville was surprised the boy didn’t let go of his hand once they entered Hogwarts and walked among their fellow students.  In fact, Justin seemed to dare anyone to comment, giving their joined hands a gentle swing as they walked, head held high with a radiant smile.  Neville’s own family acknowledged him with undertones of constant disapproval; to be very nearly shown-off with such pride made him wonder how he ever got so lucky to have someone like Justin beside him.

They slipped into the library quietly, not wanting to draw the wrath of Madam Pince, and Neville took them to the far left shelves.  He scanned the shelf and quickly found the three titles he needed, letting go of Justin’s hand only to retrieve them.  “This one is a great overview of all four Founder’s Gifts,” he began.  “These other two are focused on Sympathetic Magic and Flortunis—that’s what the plant is called when it’s connected to a person.  It’s like, flora and fortunis, plant-fortune.”  He held up the second book and said, “This has loads of information about how to intentionally create a connection, what plants are best to use, establishing boundaries so you’re not overwhelmed by alerts, and so on.”  He fumbled to indicate the third book.  “This focuses on reading the plant, and the meditative state required to determine diagnosis.”

Justin’s eyes were a little wide at all the new information to absorb.  “For someone who started all this because he was researching Parseltongue to make his friend feel better, it seems you did a holy-hell amount of side-tracking into Sympathetic magic.”

Neville shrugged.  “I love plants.  The idea hooked me.  I used to wish I had the gift, so I could…” he stopped.  “Er, I just love plants.”

“No, come on,” Justin insisted.  “Tell me.”

Neville hesitated for a long moment, then made a decision.  “The Janus Thickey ward does everything it can, but its resources are limited,” Neville felt his breathing shallow, lungs unaccustomed to carrying words of his parents.  “My mom and dad’s minds are so fragile they can’t endure Legilimency.  Dad is catatonic, and mom suffers with psychosis…Conversation and discussion are impossible.  Which means I have no idea what they want or need.  Their time of draining is long overdue, I just want to make them as comfortable as possible.”

Justin put Cece on the floor, took the books from Neville’s arms and floated them down beside the plant.  He took both Neville’s hands in his.  Gently, he asked, “What is the draining?”

Neville shuddered.  God, he’s never spoken about his parents to anyone—Ginny and Luna had tried to get him to open up, but he never could.  Some things were just too private. 

But he wanted to tell Justin everything.

“When Cruciatus is pushed to break the victim’s mind, it also breaks the spirit.”  He swallowed hard.  Justin’s thumbs rubbed soothing circles over his skin.  “It’s called the draining _._   People lose the will to live and just…drift away.  Victims often die within six months of being cursed and broken.”  He grimaced.  “My parents have clung on for _years_ , and I don’t know if that’s a cruelty...”  He took a deep breath.  “I wish I knew if there’s any peace for them.”

Justin held his hands tighter and looked deep into Neville’s eyes.  “I’ll make them Flortunis.”

Neville was so shocked he recoiled back.  Justin held firm to his hands.  “I don’t think you understand,” Neville whispered.  “Everything you felt when Cece was dying?  That was Sympathetic magic alerting you to emotions or symptoms your Gran was feeling.  If you make Flortunis for my parents, god only knows what you’ll go through.”

“These books will teach me how to set up boundaries, right?”  Justin pulled Neville closer.  “I’ll feel it, and it will be dreadful.  And then I’ll turn it off, and we’ll have answers.”

“You would do that for me?”

“Yes,” Justin answered in the same manner one might answer a proposal: love giddy on the tongue to say the only word it could offer.  Yes.

*

Augusta returned Neville’s permission slip requesting a day off to visit St Mungo’s with a long letter warning him that introducing a new boyfriend to his parents would be futile at best, and at worst it could be too much stress for a new relationship to bear and it could drive Justin away.  Her worry was detailed in two feet of parchment, her handwriting cramping early on.  But she signed his form and wished him luck, and agreed to let him visit without her accompaniment.

Mrs. Finch-Fletchley had been writing a fundraising letter on behalf of a local campaign when her son’s permission slip was brought for delivery.  She took one look at the barn owl gunning straight for her window, screamed and slammed the glass shut.  The poor owl hooted furiously, hopping along the sill and tapping at the glass trying to deliver its post.  Mrs. Finch-Fletchley called her mother-in-law and asked her to come upstairs to take a look at this ‘rabid bird attacking the window’, and of course Gran Cecelia noticed the parchment tied neatly to its leg.  She laughed and opened the window, but it still took a long time before she was brave enough to reach toward the creature’s leg and untie its delivery.  The owl would return to Justin with the signed slip carried in its beak since the muggle women were too nervous to tie it to his leg.

*

Today was the day.

Neville and Justin each carried a small potted bonsai tree as they walked through St Mungo’s.  Neville knew the route well; they moved quickly through the hallways of fearful urgency, hope, and electric relief, towards the long corridor of the Janus Thickey ward and its quiet surrender.

Neville hesitated at the heavy doors to the ward for incurable maladies.  He couldn’t meet Justin’s eye as he mumbled, “Dad probably won’t acknowledge you at all.  He doesn’t really react to anything.  Mom can be really sweet, sometimes she just wants to smell my hair, or she’ll gift me bits of litter she’s stolen and kept safe from the Healers notice.”  He smiled, and it quickly faded.  “But sometimes she cries, or throws things; screams and tears at her hair.”  He looked up nervously.  “If mum’s in a mood, please don’t think badly of her, okay?”

“It’s not her fault,” Justin said. 

Neville was relieved that Justin understood.

They entered the room and walked past its other occupants, beds lined up neatly against the wall, until they came to the last pair of beds.  Frank was laying down, seemingly having not moved since Neville’s last visit, staring far across the world.  Alice’s bed was empty.

Justin glanced back down the way they’d come, looking for someone wandering.  “Did we miss her?”

“She might be in the bathroom?” Neville said.  He hoped that was the case, it would mean she was having a very good day.  On her worse days, she would urinate protective circles around her husband’s bed, making a mess down her legs and gown in her efforts.

Neville moved to set the plant he was carrying down on her bedside table.  A hand from underneath the bed shot out and grabbed his ankle; Alice snarled as her fingers dug into his leg.  Neville sat down and whispered soothingly to her, bowing his head for her to smell his hair.  Justin waited tensely, hoping she wouldn’t escalate in violence.  But Neville knew his mother well, and soon she was raking both hands through his hair and smiling at him.  He helped her come out and gently guided her into sitting on the bed.

“Mom, this is my boyfriend, Justin,” Neville introduced as she deeply inhaled the crown of his head.

“Five red hens,” she murmured softly, taking another long smell of her baby.  “Five red hens…”

Justin looked at Neville.  “What does that mean?”

“No idea,” Neville said regretfully.  “It’s the only thing she’ll ever say, and apparently she only speaks when I visit.”  He tried standing but his mother whimpered for him.  He quickly retook his seat beside her.  “Maybe you want to start with my Dad, and hopefully I can get her to relax?”

“Sure thing,” Justin agreed, placing his plant on Frank’s bedside table.  “Hello, Mr. Longbottom,” Justin said.  The elder man blinked slowly, like his eyes were sore, but otherwise did not move.  Gently, Justin took the man’s hand and began weaving the connection between Frank and the plant.  The little tree seemed to smoke and then like a bolt of lightning its miniature trunk was hollowed and blackened.  Few leaves withstood the trial, and their scarcity revealed dry, peeling branches.

Justin gaped as the world went white around him, stabbing flashes of memory moving swiftly like a needle across his emptiness.  The thread drew tight across his vision, bright colours and texture –and then disappeared to the reverse.  Piercing pain as memory dipped in and out, stitching his existence while he was left to watch in awe.

“Justin?”

He felt an avalanche of ice fall around him and he gasped as he returned.  _Slow, steady breaths,_ he reminded himself.  “He…” Justin paused.  The boy got up, his legs shakey, and moved to sit on the bed with Neville and Alice.  She was now laying back against the pillows with her ankles crossed.  Neville had given her his tie, which she folded this way and that.  Justin wondered how long he had been out of it.  He took Neville’s hand, unsure how to tell him…

Alice tensed and began winding the tie tightly around her left fist.

“Please, just tell me,” Neville said.

Justin swallowed.  “He keeps relieving patches of his life in loops.  He wants to remember, but it hurts every time he does.”  Justin squeezed his hand.  “He hasn’t been able to make new memories since he was cursed.”

“…does he know who I am?”

“…No.  He believes his son is an infant.”  Justin gave him a minute to absorb that before continuing.  “Only his best memories resurface.  He loved his life, and every glimpse he gets makes him happy, even if there’s pain when the vision comes.”  He brought Neville’s hand to his mouth and kissed it.  “His time of draining is long-away.  He’s content.”

Alice saw the need in her son’s eyes answered in the stranger, and the tie fell into a pool on the bed as her hand relaxed.  She picked it up and resumed folding.

“Shall I read your mother now?”  Justin asked, and Neville couldn’t answer.

 _Spirit of my silence, I can hear you,_ Neville thought.  _But I’m afraid to be near you._   “Yes,” he said bravely.

Justin scooted a little closer to Alice, watching her carefully for any signs of alarm.  She was aware of him, but didn’t seem disturbed.  Justin slowly reached forward and took her hand, the Gryffindor tie held between them.

Alice’s plant grew thorns that inverted into their own branches, mold oozing around each wound.  The branches became thinner, drier…

…then grew several small, vividly purple flowers.

Neville’s eyes widened.  “Justin…Amethyst flowers on the table…”  He realized Justin was still deep in connection and he forced himself to wait, his mind turning itself over and over wondering _Is it real or a fable?_

Justin gasped.  “Neville….She’s still in there.”

“I need you to be very clear with me right now,” Neville said, “Because I have never been given hope before, and if it accelerates past the reality I will crash and burn.”

“She’s been trying to communicate.  Five Red Hens was never nonsense.” Justin laughed.  “She understands _so much_ , but the words fall away like water in cupped hands when she tries to use them.  Yes, she loses touch with reality.  She has nightmares and seizures, she hallucinates her attackers are in the room, she’s developed a lot of unhealthy rituals that she thinks protect her and Frank…”  Justin shuddered at the image of how she had pulled five of her teeth to hide under Frank’s mattress.  The Healer regrew them for her, but _damn_ , Alice would do anything for her family.  He grinned at Neville, and saw his boyfriend looking lost and afraid.  “Neville, this is good news,” he said.  “You can reach her.”

“But I don’t know where to begin,” Neville said shakily.  “I don’t know where to begin…”

“Believe,” Justin said.  “That’s where you begin.  I know you’ve been stuck in a barren wasteland, but somewhere in the desert there’s a forest.  There may be an acre before us, lush green communication exists.” He stood from the bed.  Alice tightened her hand over Justin’s.  He leaned down and kissed her forehead.  “You’ve done so well,” he told her.  Keeping her hand, he said to Neville, “I studied how to use Sympathetic magic to communicate with coma patients.  It’s not the same…but there’s enough of her there that I think I can help bridge the gap.” 

“Be careful,” Neville whispered.  He didn’t want Justin experimenting with highly specialized magic; he could truly injure himself if he tried anything risky.

Justin smiled at him and, keeping Alice’s hand, reached with his other hand to pinch a purple petal.  He closed his eyes and slid easily into meditation.  Static burns lashed over the palms of his hands.  He kept his breathing steady, his hold gentle and firm.  He pressed onward.  “Get her to say it, if you can,” Justin whispered, concentrating.

Neville put his hand over their conjoined hands.  “Mom,” he said, shy and eager.  “…I love you.”  He held her gaze, willing her to understand.  “I love you.”

Her eyes flickered over his face, her lips working like she was trying to figure out what his words were.  “…Five red hens.”

Justin let go of the plant like it had bit him.  He had the same look on his face that Harry did when he won his first Quidditch game.  And then his face crumbled into despair and he was crying so hard that he started hiccoughing.

Alice wrapped an arm around Justin and forcibly pulled him back onto the bed.  She used Neville’s tie to gently dry his eyes, then smear the tears all across his face.  Justin laughed between sobs, trying to calm down.

Neville stood and walked up behind him, embracing him in a secure hug.  Justin clung to his arm until the crying subsided, then patted the spot on the bed Neville had vacated.  “Come back,” he said.

Neville obliged.  “Are you okay?”

“Yes, I’m fine.”  He took a shuddering breath and smiled.  “I know what she’s saying.” 

Neville remained silent.

“Five Red Hens…it all goes back to what you told me about language being symbols and strings-of-symbols to create meaning.  She’s just compacted them.”  His feet were cold.  But that didn’t make sense.  Why would--?  He looked at Alice’s bare feet and realized his barriers were slipping.  He pulled the blanket up and bundled it around her feet.  His own temperature returned to normal as she dug her toes vigorously in the fabric.  “Let’s start with the easy part.  The Hen.”  His voice dipped low and melodic as he aligned himself with the meditative state that let him understand her.  “Animals most often compared to mothers are mama-bear and mother-hen.  Mama-bear is a fierce mom who will destroy anyone who threatens her babies.  She is aggressive, strong, a force to be reckoned with.  But a mother hen?  A mother hen worries.  She is powerless.  She lives caged and watches helplessly as her eggs—her babies, or in this case, baby—is taken from her.  She may not have gotten to raise you but she will always be your mother.  Red: red is the colour of blood, love, anger, passion.  She is angry at her helplessness, she maintains passion for her husband, she has love for you, her blood.  Five: the pentagram point-down is matter subsuming spirit…She knows she’s broken, and she’s so angry about it.  The number five is also the number of marriage, of union between male and female as the sum of two and three, with two representing the Mother and three representing the Father.  She remains devoted to your father.  Basically, Five Red Hens is her way of saying ‘I’m angry at my situation, but I am helpless to it.  I love you, I love your father, and I am so sorry’.”

Neville looked at his mother.  He struggled for words.  None of this was her fault, but if he truly listened to her, he had to acknowledge she felt guilt and needed forgiveness.  He finally said: “I forgive you, mother, I can hear you…”  He looked to Justin for help. 

Justin reached forward and pinched the little purple petal. 

Slowly, Alice’s eyes lit with an understanding Neville had never seen on her before.  For the first time, he knew she saw him, and he knew how much she loved him.  He had finally reached her.  The look they shared stretched to fill the holes of their unshared past with limitless and timeless love.

And just like that, Neville felt the spirit of his silence dissipate.  He could let go of his secret wishes for a perfect family, now that he truly had his mother and knew his father was at peace.  The apparition of the idealized passed through him; it was a death with dignity.


End file.
